I should have gone with him! Hawk thought, pain and guilt returning to tug upon his heart. I couldn't have gone, not the way thai matters between the army and the Indians have been escalating here.
But this . . . could it be real? Legal?
Hawk closed his eyes tightly. He'd been a brave warrior to the Sioux, a courageous soldier in the Union Army in the recent War of the Southern Rebellion.
But he couldn't fight away the future.
He knew it; his father had known it.
For a moment, he saw a faraway time when the Black Hills had belonged to the Indians. The Sioux hadn't actually lived there then; the land had been sacred, a place to hunt, a holy place, and a shelter when it was needed. The Sioux were nomads, already pushed westward from the Mississippi by the flow of the white men. There were many Sioux: the Sans Arc, the Brule, the Oglala, the Two Kettles, llunkpapa, and Blackfeet Sioux. And among those many Sioux, there were even more bands. Any warrior or family could break away as they chose. The Sioux were a free people, respected for the lives they must lead as individuals. It was a virtue among them.
And yet, as the whites encroached upon them, this independence became a danger as well. It made them divisible and vulnerable.
As a small boy, he had grown up in his mother's world. I le had lain in his cradle board, seen the buffalo skins of I lie tipi as his first walls.
He had been loved. The Sioux valued their children. He was treated gently not only by his mother, but by Flying Sparrow, his mother's brothers, and his grandfather, the peace chief, Sitting Hawk. He was never struck. He called all men of the tribe "father," all women "mother." He was welcomed in any tipi. A Sioux boy must learn two things: to be a good hunter and to be a good warrior. Both meant life for his people.
Until his eleventh birthday, he knew very little of the white world. He knew now that until the Mexican- American War of 1846-1848, the Americans—who had gained the plains through the Louisiana Purchase—had considered them the Great American Desert, a permanent Indian border. But with the land gains made after the war, America's western boundary was thrown open to the Pacific. In 1851, he had gone with his mother's people, a small band of Oglala Sioux, to Fort Laramie, on the North Platte River. It was the largest gathering of Indians he had ever seen—many of the Sioux bands were present along with Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Shoshones, Crows, Assini- boines, Arikaras, and others. It was agreed that the Indians were to be paid each year to make peace with the white emigrants—many traveling through to the new gold finds in California—and among themselves. The white men chose to call certain men "head chiefs." The Indians were told that they couldn't make war among themselves, but that was impossible because warring against one another was a way of life. The treaty was doomed from the time the whites first had their so-called head chiefs "touch the pen"—or put their hands upon it before white men signed their names for them in the white language.
From that day on, the whites began to come, but they didn't much influence his life. Yet.
He had been Little Sparrow then. He had remained Little Sparrow until a few months after his twelfth birthday. Then he had counted coup against one of his Crow enemies, slapping the warrior on the cheek before they engaged in hand- to-hand combat with their knives. Counting coup—striking an enemy face-to-face rather than killing him from a distance—granted a warrior honor.
It had weighed heavily on him that he had taken a life, even though he had fought the Crow with a deep-seated fury. A Crow warrior had led a war party into their Sioux village when their own warriors had been hunting. He had seized three young women, taken two for his own, and given one to a friend, Snake-in-the-Tree. Snake-in-the-Tree had abused his young captive so thoroughly that she had taken her own life. The young woman, Dancing Cloud, had been his grandfather's great-grandchild, and he had known that he must avenge her death to prove his worth.
At a victory dance that night, Little Sparrow had been given the name Thunder Hawk, for he had been as swift and strong as the bird of prey, as fierce as the thunder that could shake the plains.
Another year passed, and he danced the Sun Dance. The Sioux, the many factions and bands, met together once a year every year for the Sun Dance. It was the most important of the ceremonies prescribed to them by the White Buffalo Woman, who had come at the beginning to teach l hem their morality and their way of life. It took place in June, the month of the chokecherries, and lasted twelve days, requiring great strength of body and mind.
At nearly fourteen Thunder Hawk was a tall boy, almost six feet, taller than many of the grown warriors, though his height was not that unusual, since he knew a Miniconjou Sioux, Touch-the-Clouds, who was nearly seven feet and truly towered over other men. Thunder Hawk wanted to be both a great warrior and a wise one. He wanted the guidance of Wakantanka, the Great Mystery, so he danced with skewers piercing his back muscles, praying for his people mid for strength against all his enemies until he fell. He was honored among his people as a young warrior who showed promise of greatness.
Then his father had suddenly come back into his life.
He hadn't known the blond, green-eyed stranger who had come into their village, but he had known that something was different about him, and he had known that change was coming, and he had hated that change. He had feared it, but a boy newly become a warrior with the name Thunder Hawk could not betray fear.
The stranger who came to them was welcomed by the older warriors. He was an old friend who had lived among them before.
A white, who had danced the Sun Dance with the skewers through his chest, who had fought the Crow with them and counted coup.
He was still stunned to discover that the white man had come because his white wife had died—and because he wanted to make Flying Sparrow his wife now in his white world as well as in the Indian world. The Sioux did not think badly of him for having two wives—most Sioux warriors had more than one wife, though their wives were often sisters.
The man who came spoke the Sioux language very well. He was liked; he was called brother by the warriors. Thunder Hawk learned that the man had come here years before as a representative of the American government, as a man called a topographical engineer, a mapmaker. The Sioux had come upon him while scouting. He had fought bravely and been wounded. He had been taken captive, and Flying Sparrow had nursed him back to health. Then he had been the younger son of a wealthy British chief. Now he was no longer the younger son because illness had taken his brother. And now he wanted to make sure that his son by Hying Sparrow could be a legitimate heir to his vast estates. He had another son himself, an older son by his white wife. But that son did not mind having a brother.
Hawk minded. He didn't want to leave the band. He had many friends who were just becoming men, who had also counted coup, killed their first buffalo, and killed their first enemies. He had a kola, or best friend, Dark Mountain, who planned strategies for the hunt with him.
He had gone to the foot of the hills for his vision quest. For a Sioux boy, the vision quest was the center of his life. In his vision, a Sioux touched something sacred: he learned what road he must follow, what path he must take.
After three days without food or water, Hawk had col-
I ipsed and his vision had come to him. He had ridden a Mack pony between a herd of buffalo to his left and a flight nt eagles to his right. The animals had cried out to him, tried to tell him something, yet he could not understand, lie had to ride harder and harder. Then he was able to understand the eagles while the buffalo could not, and likewise, he was able to understand the buffalo while the eagles could not. A rain of arrows had come over him as he had udden, but no matter how close they came, he knew that lu- had to keep riding. In the end, he saw the sun, and he kept riding toward the blinding golden light of the sun, irnching then into the sky to collect the arrows and keep Ihem from falling.
His dream had disturbed him, but Mile-High-Man, a relucted holy man, had told him that he was indeed intended lo be a warrior, one who wou
ld be wise and able to communicate with others and lead well.
If such was to be his role in life, then how could he leave his band and join the household of a white man?
Perhaps he needed to go, Mile-High-Man suggested, to Irani the ways to communicate with both the buffalo and the eagles.
A whimper from the bed suddenly distracted him from Ins thoughts. He came around, staring down at the beautiful blond woman lying on the bed. Her arms suddenly rose as
II she were warding off a blow. He frowned, almost reach- Ing out to wake her then, but her arms fell; she shuddered and went still.
I le wondered if she was still fighting him or if someone rise was haunting her dreams. Now she lay so peacefully, I in features delicate and exquisite, her hair a pool of gold io frame them.
I le turned from her abruptly, walking away, staring into llie fire.
He watched the flames. In time, he'd wake her. His fin- Kris clenched his palms. Indeed. In time, he'd wake her all night.
Four
Half a continent away, a young woman hurried along a hallway carrying a pile of bath sheets and two large bottles of liniment. She was of medium height, but she moved with such carriage and grace that she gave the impression of being taller. Her hair was a deep, dark brown, just touched with hints of henna that gave it a rich, sable appearance. Her eyes were a dark, vibrant blue-green, almost turquoise. Until her mother's recent death, she might have claimed to have lived a happy life, despite the secrets of the past that had haunted them all.
But now ...
In the last three weeks, she had faced far more than tragedy.
Horror itself had entered into her life. And surprisingly enough, she had discovered she had the strength to deal with it. Skylar had given her that strength. Skylar had always been there for her. She hoped that now ... finally they were managing to rescue one another.
Outside a doorway, she paused, squaring her shoulders. No matter what was said, she would play her part. Give nothing away. Nothing.
She pushed open the door. He sat there in his specially carved wheelchair, an afghan thrown over his useless legs. Still, he was somehow not a man to be pitied because when he gazed at her, the demons of cruelty and anger and ... revenge were in his eyes.
The doctor stood behind the chair. "Ah, there you are, my dear! The liniment, just as I've asked. Good. A number of towels, yes. Ah, there now, dear, fetch the brandy, a snifter for the senator ... ah, yes, a good brandy relaxes the muscles, and the body—"
"Doctor," the senator said, shaking his head sadly. "Brandy, liniment. Relaxed muscles, tensed muscles! What does it matter, when I will never walk again?"
"Courage, now, Senator!" the doctor said. He was a bcwhiskered old man. Sabrina thought he was doddering, and wondered why the senator had chosen him for his treatments. Because the doctor wouldn't ask too many questions? She'd been surprised at first that the senator hadn't ( ailed in the police.
But then, if he'd thrown out accusations, he might have had a few accusations thrown back at him.
He was still staring at her. Smiling, a smile that conveyed no humor, no warmth. It was a chilling smile. One that warned, menaced ... and promised as well. I will have my revenge! that smile seemed to vow. In my own way, my own time. And don't doubt my power: God, no, girl, don't you go doubting my power.
Perhaps, she told herself, determined not to respond to that smile in any way. If the doctor weren't there, she might be tempted to laugh, to taunt him in return. You can't hurt me now, you fool. You can't hurt me. Skylar stopped you when you tried!
He was a good-looking man. Handsome, dignified. He was always so careful to speak in low, well-modulated tones. His constituents knew him as a kind man, a bene- I actor to so many worthy organizations, a strong man, always willing to fight.
God, they didn't begin to know how willing he was to fight, or to what levels he would stoop to win whatever it was he wanted. Whom he would hurt.
Whom he might have killed . . .
She handed him the brandy the doctor had ordered. She stared straight into his eyes as she did so. She didn't allow his fingers to touch hers as she gave him the snifter. She hoped that God would forgive her for praying that he would be a cripple even when this life ended and he rotted in hell.
She hoped as well that God would forgive her since it had occurred to her to poison him when he had first fallen. It was Skylar who had made her see that they could not. Not out of fear for the law or any hangman. But for their own souls. "No, my God, we can't; don't you see, we can't become what he is, we can't; we need to beat him in life, don't you see?"
The doctor had turned to the table, sorting through towels and liniments. "We shall begin here momentarily!" he said with forced cheerfulness.
The senator kept smiling as his fingers curled around the snifter.
"What a good girl you are, Sabrina!" he mocked. "Such a comfort to me in my distress!"
"I hope you die!" she said in a calm, even whisper.
"But I won't," he promised her softly. "I'll live a long life. And I'll see to it that I carry out all the responsibilities I have regarding you, my dear. I'll care for you, I swear it. I do so enjoy caring for you!"
"You'll never even be able to attempt to touch me again, you bastard!"
"God takes care of the deserving."
"Yes, he does."
The senator started to laugh. The doctor turned. "Sabrina! Ah, doctor! She is, indeed, the delight of my discomfort." The doctor turned back to his work. The senator leaned toward Sabrina. She backed away a step. His face lost the convivial smile that had fooled so many. His eyes burned. "Now as to the other one ... well, she will have her comeuppance. You think you're so clever; you little fools think that you're free. .. well, you're not. She's dead! That's what she is. No matter that you were there with your sweet, glib explanation of events ..."
Sabrina took another step away from him. "I'll leave you to your patient, and your work, Doctor," she said. She stared at the senator a moment longer, lowering her voice. "You'll never find her!" she promised very softly.
She turned and exited the room.
The senator watched her go, anger darkening his face. Then he started to laugh. And he looked down at his blanketed knees and then at his feet.
God bless America. Oh, Lord, yes. God bless America.
His toes were twitching. Twitching. Moving. Within a little more time, days ... weeks ...
He'd be walking again. But no one would know. No one. In fact, she just might be the first to share the joy of his recovery.
When she tried to run.
And he ran right after her.
The fire flickered warmly against Hawk's face. Ghosts of the past still seemed to dance within it, playing upon his memory.
When his father came for his mother, Flying Sparrow took on the Christian name of Kathryn. She was still very young herself, and very beautiful. Many warriors had wanted her over the years, but she had chosen to remain with her father, and as a boy, Hawk realized that she had waited. That she had believed in her heart that her courageous white warrior would return for her. She had lived for that day, and for her son.
She had been Thunder Hawk's support in all things. He loved her. She was leaving. He was old enough to make choices for himself, yet...
The white man had given him a Christian name as well. 1 le was to be called Andrew David Douglas. The white man didn't try to influence him. He came to him and told him that he would love him always and welcome him always, just as he had made his place with the Sioux and knew that he could come to them.
Thunder Hawk was still not sure about the white man. But Mile-High-Man had reminded him that he must learn to listen to many languages. The message in his vision quest must be obeyed.
Both his grandfather and his mother begged him to give David Douglas a chance.
He sat with his grandfather one day, still torn and demanding to know why he should do so.
"David Douglas is a chief in his land.
A lord, they call him. He is honored in Scotland, as his father before him."
"We are nowhere near Scotland. We have Americans encroaching on us always!"
His grandfather smiled, nodding his wise old head. "He came here like a warrior in his way, to make his own mark. Perhaps because the nomad's blood was in his veins. Because he had read of wide open prairies, of endless vistas, of tall grasses that stretched forever. He read about people who were different. He came here to explore, and we seized him but did not kill him. Even faced with certain death, he was a friend who wanted to know us, rather than hate us. He sought knowledge, wisdom, those qualities we seek ourselves. He needed to learn our religion, our way."
"He left us."
"His father and brother died; his white wife was very sick. He loved both wives and did his duty to the woman he had taken first. When he could have lived a life of greatest comfort, he returned here. His place is in another land. His heart is here. Now he has arranged it that others care for the title and property that will go to his older son by the white way, yet he has come here with that son as well to live near the rivers where we place our villages. He knows your world. He learned it with his blood. He was our captive first, then our relative." He took a very deep breath, looking at Hawk. "One day, a tide of white men will come. I saw it many years ago, in my own vision."
"The tide already comes!"
His grandfather raised a hand in acknowledgment. "You have yet to see the wave! There will be blood before then. We will fill the prairie with our blood, nurture it, give to it. But we cannot stem the flow of white men. Therefore, some of us must befriend them. Some must fight, and some must die, and some must live. Else we have died and bled for nothing. Do you understand?"
No Other Man Page 4
